


surrender all your good intent

by badritual



Series: FFH Drabbles [4]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies), Spider-Man: Far From Home (2019)
Genre: Additional Warnings In Author's Note, Don't copy to another site, Gen, Horror, Implied Ritual Sex, M/M, Necromancy, Not Beta Read, Peter Parker is a Mess, Post-Spider-Man: Far From Home, Ritual Sex, canon adjacent
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-20
Updated: 2019-10-20
Packaged: 2020-12-24 19:04:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 763
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21104483
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/badritual/pseuds/badritual
Summary: Peter’s just been solonelyafter everything that happened over the summer.





	surrender all your good intent

**Author's Note:**

> The prompt was "100 words of fucking someone back to life." I guess it was inspiring.
> 
> If you couldn't tell, I was handwaving hard with the "spell." Hover over the Latin for a translation.
> 
> Title from "Dissociation" by Timber Timbre.
> 
> Peter's probably underage (I imagined this happening roughly six months after _Far From Home_ but thought he was a high school senior) but that's probably honestly the least objectionable thing happening here.

Peter finally—_finally_—has everything he needs for the spell: a pinch of salt (he figures Aunt May’s fancy Himalayan salt will do the trick), a single feather from a bird of prey (he’d slit open Ned’s down pillow and plucked a feather free the last time they got together to work on Ned's Lego Death Star), three drops of blood from a virgin (the cut on his hand still throbs painfully in time with his heartbeat), and a broken piece of white sidewalk chalk. 

And the body. Can’t forget the body.

Peter grasps the jagged bit of sidewalk chalk in his left hand and sketches out runes in uneven lines. He hopes demons don’t grade on artistic ability, or he’s screwed. 

The body is lain out before him, covered in a stiff, blood-stained sheet. From where he sits on the cold, concrete floor, he can just make out the muted lines of a face under the sheet. 

Peter gets on his knees and drags the cardboard box of supplies closer. He digs out the salt, the vial of blood, and the feather, laying them beside the body. 

Somehow, it’s easier thinking of him as “the body.” As an it and not a _him_. 

Peter’s just been so _lonely_ after everything that happened over the summer. After he pretty much got doxxed and his identity as Spider-Man was exposed, Aunt May had to pull him out of school due to the unwanted publicity. Michelle's parents didn't exactly want their daughter dating someone like Peter, who could put her in danger. Most of old his friends, besides Ned, started avoiding him. 

He’d thought of bringing Tony back. But he couldn’t do that to Pepper and Morgan and Happy. So here he is, bringing back the man who ruined his life. But, for the briefest of moments, when Peter was drowning, Quentin Beck had been a lifeboat. He’d saved Peter. 

Sure, he ended up being nothing but an obsessive, narcissistic liar but still. There’d been something real there. Hadn’t there? Peter’s certain of it. 

He fumbles with the vial, struggling to unscrew the cap. He shakes salt into his uninjured hand, then pats it into a pile on the concrete. He places the feather on top. 

Peter pulls out the scrap of paper with the spell scribbled on it and begins to recite it as he’s practiced these last few months. 

It’s in Latin, but he’s gotten good at saying the words just right even if he’s not quite sure what they all mean. He only stumbles over the last couple lines.

_Accipite et comedite hoc est corpus meum._

Peter sits back on his haunches and waits. Watches. 

The figure under the sheet starts stirring. Peter can’t tell if the spell worked, if he’s succeeded, or if it’s something else. He’d been warned that what he brought back might not be entirely Quentin—or any part of Quentin at all. 

The sheet falls away from his face. Dull, milky eyes stare back at Peter. The lips pull back in a rictus grin.

Peter should be afraid, but he’s not. Instead of recoiling, he reaches out.

“Boy am I glad to see you, Mister Beck,” Peter exhales, relief washing over him like a cool wave.

The head swivels and those dull eyes zero in on Peter. The mouth is still grinning that unnatural smile. “Spell’s not complete, kid,” a voice as dry as leaves rasps out of cracked lips. 

Peter goes still, an icy finger of dread trailing down his spine. The relief he’d felt earlier recedes like the tides. “What do you mean?” 

He scrabbles on the ground for something, anything he could use to defend himself. But he’d been an idiot, left EDITH at home. And his cell phone hasn’t picked up a signal since he came down here to do the spell and bring back Quentin. 

Quentin’s corpse sits up, letting the sheet fall. Peter’s eyes can’t help but snag on the bullet holes that riddle his waxy, sallow skin. 

“I—I don’t understand,” Peter stammers. 

“We have to consummate the spell.”

Peter stares. “Y—you mean…”

It’s Quentin who reaches out, digging broken fingernails into Peter’s bare arm. It’s Quentin who drags Peter down to the concrete. It’s Quentin who bares his teeth at Peter in a disgusting mockery of a smile. 

Peter reaches up, curling his fingers into claws and swinging blindly. His hand comes away with a clump of hair and rotting flesh. 

Peter starts screaming. He doesn’t stop until much, much later.

If he ever stops screaming at all.


End file.
